Untitled
by KLMeri
Summary: Something has happened to McCoy and he's not sure how to explain it to his lovers; that is, Bones attracts trouble while on shore leave with Jim and Spock. K/S/M, McSpirk. - COMPLETE
1. This is where it begins

Title: Untitled  
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy  
Disclaimer: Thank you to Paramount and Roddenberry; you get the credit.  
Summary: Something has changed McCoy and he's not sure how to explain it to his lovers.  
Notes: My first ST fic ever! I've had this scene in my head for ages. Had to come out eventually. Sorry, no beta. Don't mind the mistakes. This was originally posted on my writing journal.

**Warning**: On occasion, there will be blatant abuse of proper English grammar.

* * *

He watches the waves break, the sound soothing. Dusk arrives, one strange crab-like creature venturing across the sandy beach. A small breeze cools the heat at the back of his neck, remnants of a sunny afternoon.

How is he going to explain? Not even sure if he understands the situation himself. Not even sure if he _knows_ himself anymore.

It all started at the end of a mission gone sour. Leonard had spent an extended amount of time in Sickbay, directing the flow of incoming injured parties while dividing his attention with the serious cases. None had called for more than a short patch-up surgery (for which he was grateful), but the sheer volume of wounded ensigns rivaled his early post-med school days in a large city ER. He had been exhausted, taking only a half-shift off here and there to rest his mind and hands. The Captain secured shore leave for a weary crew as soon as things quieted down.

That's what eventually drove events to this point, this beach where he attempts to find the courage to approach the two most important men in his life. To tell them about what has happened, what has _changed_, in the past few days. He hasn't been pushing them away, not like he knows they think he has.

It's just been too overwhelming. Too different and difficult to grasp.

(So much possibility. It terrifies McCoy.)

He knows Jim and Spock have returned from their trip into town. There is a skittering along his back that confirms they are nearby, probably settling into an after-dinner drink for Jim while Spock sets up the 3-D chessboard for the evening game. Both have always worked so well together, without a need for words, like habit.

They've also worked well together against him. He expects that too. Soon. They will stand close, shoulders brushing, forming a wall that essentially will make McCoy want to stand down, move away. Because he knows against them, his defenses are weak—his offense weaker.

He loves them too much.

(That's why it will hurt, Len, when you reveal this new thing.)

But it wasn't his fault, God dammit! A classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with an individual _determined_ to have her way. Hell, he'd never even guessed at what she had done to him until days later. And fixing this situation? Restoring Doctor Leonard McCoy to a normal man again—well, that was impossible, wasn't it? She refused his demands. Said he had a purpose now, as if saving lives on a daily basis wasn't purpose. (Just how many more would need to be saved to make him worthy? He estimated too many and never enough.)

How do you tell someone you love that you've changed? No, not your feelings. (Stop, Jim! Listen to me. Never my feelings. Nevernevernever.) You. Your being, that core, the one that says I am human, Terran, Joe-average and old-country-doctor. Same.

It's gone now. How do you tell the _someones_ you love that you are altered—such a simple irrevocable fact...

Bones is no longer human.


	2. And we worry about you

The point of shore leave was to relax; yet the knots in Jim's back seemed to have tightened since he left the Enterprise. He wanted to spend time with Spock and Bones, without the pressure of a captaincy weighing him down. Just a little alone time.

Apparently, he shouldn't have bothered wanting.

There was something wrong with Bones. He felt a hitch in his chest just acknowledging that fact.

Oh, the doctor was there, sharing the same ocean-side condominium. Physically. But if Jim's gut was anything to go by (and he prided himself on trusting his instincts), Bones was pulling away. He sat at the table, ate the same meal but carried on conversation _quietly_. A walk on the wide beach and he stayed two steps behind.

Jim had tried a myriad of tactics to reach Bones: patiently waiting (that didn't last long), angry confrontation (earned him a scowl and an empty side of the bed), and a friendly offering of alcohol. He had really hoped the latter would work, but they—minus Spock—shared a mutual glass before Bones _turned down_ a refill in lieu of a solitary amble along the shore.

That's when Jim realized his lover was in more than just a mood. As it stood, he and Spock were utterly unable to identify what was bothering McCoy.

* * *

Spock was as disturbed as Jim, though his countenance betrayed little. Between bondmates, an understanding would have been instantaneous, shared. A problem for one was a problem for both. But Spock did not have such a strong mental connection with Leonard. Normally, he was content to feel a light brushing of minds (more solidly of emotions—after all, Leonard was an _exemplary_ emotional human); but in the face of his mate's strange behavior, Spock could not help but admit the possible illogic of being only partially bonded.

He recalled his initial approach.

_Leonard sat hunched over a coffee mug (We're damn well going to have the real thing on shore leave, Jim!) and Jim, boot in hand, was frowning down at its twin. Then a pat to Spock's shoulder, a murmured "don't worry about Bones, none of us is up-to-par yet" (here Spock's eyebrow raise indicated _undeniably, Captain_) and Jim left for his morning run. _

_Leonard straightened and sighed, "You've got something to say, Spock? Well." The doctor glanced over. "Spit it out."_

_"I have made no indication for such an action, Doctor."_

_"Your eyes were drillin' holes in my back. I'd say that was some indication!"_

_"We have been on shore leave for 3.6 days. After less than two-fifths of that time, you have begun to exhibit a change in behavioral patterns for which I can identify no logical catalyst-"_

_"Now, listen here you blasted hob-"_

_Spock interrupted the doctor's surmounting defense. "Leonard, I am-" he paused momentarily, "-apprehensive on your behalf."_

_The fire in Leonard's eyes eased. "You're worried about me."_

_"Yes."_

_"Spock..." Leonard clearly wanted to say something else. Spock could see a muscle working in his jaw, as if he fought back words. Spock waited._

_The man sighed, his face suddenly too pinched. "Look, just... not yet, okay? I'm not ready yet."_

No, Spock thought, he clearly was not. And the Vulcan had accepted this (meager) explanation that was really no explanation at all.


	3. McCoy made a mistake

Kirk, Spock, and McCoy transported directly onto the docks of Shii'ret, a small but densely populated city on a lovely little M class planet known for its cool green waters and humid climate. A perfect rest-stop for weary interstellar travelers—especially for this particularly exhausted bunch of Starfleet officers. Their eyes drank in beauty, their mouths tasted the sea breeze (faintly sweet), and the last few grueling days aboard the Enterprise were suddenly forgotten.

Jim had reserved a quaint little place to stay among a row of side-by-side condos along the eastern shore line. The view heralded a magnificent stretch of glowing green water met by a golden skyline; they had been drawn to the window immediately upon entry of the residence. Bones, hip propped against the window seal, Spock—tall with his hands clasped and minutely tilted jaw, and the Captain in the middle, a hand resting on each to connect the three of them.

Those were the beginning moments of shore leave, when peace settled over their temporary home like a blanket. When they were able to exchange sweet looks and touches, and acceptance of one another.

Before the incident in the Square—an incident Bones is frightfully aware of and closed-mouthed about to his lovers.

For McCoy, doctoring is part of his essence. He could no more ignore his innate need to heal than Spock can deny the Vulcan Pon Farr. It defines him. So that late fateful evening Doctor McCoy spent tending a native woman (female? Sh'iiret-an? _Monster?)_ was no one's fault but his own nature's. Had he been aware of the dangers, of what she would do to him, he still could not have stood idly by while she bled out on packed dirt and others hurried past (heads down) in the dying light of the day.

At the time he had been furious—and verbally explicit to any passer-by within earshot—that she was treated so callously (left to die, can the non-existent die?). Bones had grabbed the nearest arm for help (Help me, damn you! She's losing too much!), and seen a grim face before the arm was wrenched away again and the street emptied faster. Now, staring at his own grim face in the bathroom mirror, Bones understood perfectly well why no one had touched her (like he had) or felt fear for her (like he had).

If he had known—

Waving Jim and Spock off to an afternoon hike, rather than joining them, made a difference. An offer to prepare dinner, a required trip to a little gourmet market in the Square.

If he had known—

That paradise is not real, nor _safe_, nor without secrets. To never help a stranger with tangled _glowing_ hair (the color of the sea) and six-inch lacerations on both arms.

If he had known—it would not have mattered at all. McCoy cursed his nature.


	4. In which we get an explanation

The people of Shii'ret are not heathens—or so they like to think. Long ago, their ancestors were Cerret, roughly translated in Standard as "those who dwelled in the sea." They are proud of their ways.

An old figure stirred slowly—with purpose, inspiring silence and the attention of eyes and ears.

"It is said that the first Shii'reti crawled from the ocean during a mighty Seastorm. As she lay dying on the beach, a white vision pulled her spirit from her sleek body, past the distant groves of trees to flat land. There was much wonder at this different place, dry and smooth but green, too, like water.

She wavered, _What is this?_

A soft answer. _Home, home._

_My home is in the Sea!_ cried the spirit.

_Home._ Waves of green whistled.

And the Shii'reti opened her eyes to a golden sky, sand in her sea hair, and water trailing along two long spindly limbs (no fin, no tough scales). She attempted to return to the Sea, but It roiled and rocked and spat her back out. With a sore heart and weeping eyes, she gathered her after-life and left the hot sand for the shade of a forest. Some moons later, the first Shii'reti emerged to find a place as lovely and green as the vision granted. Here she bore children who loved the land, whose children's children loved the land too and called it Home. But the first Shii'reti could never forget the before-life, and when her legs were feeble, she made that last journey back through the trees, to the beach, home to the Sea.

And so the people of Shii'ret (for the flatland became the birthplace of this city) have a healthy respect for the ocean and all creatures that abide therein. It is blasphemous to take from the Sea, unless the gift is freely given. A festival is held down by the docks on the longest day and children toss flowers on the waves. They celebrate along the shore, dancing with bare feet and making secret wishes that they hope It will grant (the return of a lover, a newborn, that pretty doll in the corner shop). But never do they feed from the Sea; for all love the land (the true Gift), and it is understood that to devour the soul of a Sea creature is to give up Home. It poisons one with the longing of the first Shii'reti; drives the mind mad and turns the babe from the breast; some even claim that it curses—with a white vision that sees too far (too much) and leaves behind fear.

Thus, at the knee of the adult, the child learns this: _The Sea is Great and Powerful. Do not take from the Sea, or it will take from you."_

"…Fascinating," murmured a shadow from a far corner of the room. His shadow companion made a noncommittal noise and raised his hand to gesture at the tavern hostess for more drink.

"You li-like wives' tales, Spock?"

"A wife's tale, Captain?"

Laughingly, "A story. Usually embellished. _Very _embellished."

"It is documented that most cultures share the tradition of—" a pause, "_implausible_ anecdotes which are often based on some fact. Perhaps this 'first Shii'reti' did indeed come from the Sea—or across it—and could not return."

"Alright, alright! Far be it from me to criticize a story about a pretty mermaid."

"… Jim, I believe you have consumed enough of the native beverage…"

"Only three o' these!"

"…for the average Shii'reti. Terran metabolism functions at one-third of the Shii'reti metabolic rate.

"You saying I'm drunk? 'Cause I'm _not _drunk."

"There is a 73.677% chance that you are inebriated."

"It's all Bones' fault. Wouldn't be here if it weren't for him."

"Leonard is not present, nor did he direct us to our current location."

"He won't say a damned thing to either of us, Spock! How's a man supposed to take that from his—" Jim's voice dropped off to a whispered, "_shit_."

A hand touched his shoulder gently in understanding.

"We have done no harm, Jim. I suspect there is another matter which bothers Leonard."

"We can't help him if he won't tell us what it is!" Jim angrily thumped his boots on the wooden floor. "This was supposed to be a vacation, time for us together, _all of us_! In another week…" his anger was spent, giving way to a brief despair which he locked behind closed eyes. "I don't know. _I just don't know_."

Silence lengthened between them, broken finally by the arrival of the hostess bearing another pitcher. She reached for Jim's glass, but he quickly placed his hand over top and gave her a rueful Kirk smile. "No more for me, thanks."

She smiled in return. "Did you enjoy the tale of our city?" the translator chirped in Standard.

"Spock here," Jim indicated the Vulcan beside him, "found it very fascinating."

"Indeed. I have observed that the local markets do not sell any form of sea animal or plant for consumption, despite being within relative distance of such a large body of water."

"Oh, no, we could not! It is against our Way."

"Then mariculture is not condoned here?"

She stared at them both for a moment, and Jim wondered briefly if the translator was doing an adequate job of keeping up with Spock.

Her response was slow, when it came. "We do not harvest the Sea. It is wrong. It is forbidden."

One of Spock's eyebrows rose. Jim could not resist asking, "But surely _someone_ has eaten a fish—or whatever there is—"

"No," sharply. She turned on her heel and disappeared in the crowd. _Upsetting everyone tonight_, Jim thought with a pang of regret.

But the hostess returned again with the story-teller hanging precariously onto her arm. Jim automatically reached out to steady the old man, who surprisingly grasped his hand in strong hold.

"You are strangers here," he spoke quietly. As before, they all leaned into his words.

"I have said that we come from the Sea, but we will not return there. This is our Home." He pointed at Jim. "The wood, here, the earth underneath. For one to feed on that which gave the people life—it is not done."

"And if one does?" Spock questioned softly. Jim held his breath, knowing that this Vulcan could not deny his (scientific) curiosity to understand a new culture.

The old man looked at them (sadly, Jim thought). "He is Changed; all Shii'reti will know, will recognize this in him." The air was grave. "He who feeds on the Sea is no longer a Shii'reti, a –"the translator garbled here for a moment before spitting out "—man; he does not exist to the people of Shii'ret."

Both Spock's eyebrows rose at this statement. Jim uttered to himself (and Spock's hearing) "Old-fashioned persecution. Even here."

By now, Jim and Spock became aware of the group that had gathered around them. Someone spoke out of the crowd, "That's them; he was one of_ them_!" Cries of "Yes, the stranger!" "The medicine man who yelled—" "—grabbed my arm—"

But the story-teller never wavered his attention on the two Starfleet officers. "Your third, he knows."

Jim felt his mouth go dry. "Ah—excuse… Bones? Bones _knows_?"

"Yes. He knows, he _touched_ One who forsook Home. " His low tone offered his condolences. "He knows because he is Changed too."


	5. To dream one mad

**Warning**: Definite (altered) TOS references.

The night following the help McCoy administered to the injured Shii'reti woman, he had a strange dream. He remembers floating above his body (disassociation, says the medical mind) into whiteness, which wasn't right because space should be _black_. And empty. This place was not empty, because he could make out a round form, though hazy. Green. Blue. Green, blue. Beautiful.

Familiar.

My God, is that a _planet_? _My_ planet? He remembers the shock of knowing it was Earth.

Lazily, he reached out (you're asleep, Leonard) a hand and shivered as electricity stung his fingertips. Low rumbling shook his eardrums.

And Earth cracked open, spilling bright _hot_ red into the blue green—split apart (right through the middle of the Pacific) and Bones watched, horrified, as it imploded into whiteness.

He woke up with a severe headache behind his eyes.

The next night, immediately upon lying down, he was flung from his body again. But the vision was not true white, it was Sickbay-white.

_What the blazes am I doing in Sickbay?_

"Doctor McCoy! Doctor McCoy! We're losing him!"

He spun towards the voice, and when he saw the biobed (why is there only one biobed, no nurses?) Leonard thought he was going to throw up.

The greyish (bloodless) body belonged to Jim. He recognized the strong, now curling, hands and short square nailbeds; he knew that stubborn jaw line, what little was not covered by destroyed flesh.

But his golden hair had mostly fallen out, his face and body supporting open, gaping radiation burns. His eyes—God, those bright eyes—were filmy white (fried).

Jim, _Jimmy-boy_…

McCoy choked down bile, his hands shaking with emotion.

"The radiation destroyed him cell by cell, Doctor."

Bones couldn't lift his head to see who had spoken. "What radiation? What happened?" _to my Jim_?

"He sacrificed the one for the many—to save us all."

At that, Bones drew back to retort (how can we be saved if he's dead!) but he stopped short.

A female with green hair and cold, cold eyes smiled at him.

"What the hell is going on? You're not—"

"I am here."

"This… this isn't real! Get out of my head!"

"This is the truth," she said and reached out to him. Bones stared at the long gash in her arm, dripping white. "You're bleeding the truth too."

He looked down at himself and bit back a scream. White blood poured from slits in his forearms.

He woke up, carefully slid from the bed, and laid his forehead down on the cool tile of the bathroom.

McCoy did not sleep the next night, which did little good. The third dream (not dreams, Leonard's heart argued) came during the day. He had been making a pot of honest-to-God real coffee, when he reached for the tin of grounds and grabbed only air. The kitchen counter had disappeared too.

Instead, the doctor was facing the open campus of Starfleet Academy. Shots rang out in rapid succession, startling him from his disbelief and he realized he was in the middle of a ceremony.

When the horns began to play, he knew with dread he was at a memorial service. Rows upon rows of people were standing. Some were weeping openly; others, stoic in their laments.

A disembodied voice droned on, "In honor of the late Captain Spock, son of Sarek—a Federation hero, brilliant scientist and—"

"—another of your lovers," the Shii'reti smiled over at him and took his slack hand in hers, "dearly departed."

"I helped you. Why?" Leonard struggled to hold himself together. "Why are you doing this to me?"

She said, "The Nexus took him, and now you'll never get him back."

"Why, God dammit!" He jerked his hand away and faced her. (She started to glow.)

"We see only the truth now, McCoy."

He would have replied (scathingly) but Leonard was in the kitchen again, with a faint echo of laughter in his ears.

He had thrown the coffee out, grabbed his jacket, and left in search of his sanity.


	6. Never accost the enemy

Notes: We are continuing to follow McCoy directly after Part 5. We get some action (and trauma!Bones). This fic has definitely become more than a drabble!

McCoy marched to the corner of the Square. There were still blue stains on the ground. He just stared at them for a moment, contemplatively, before turning sharply on his heel. A tavern faced the west side, opposite of the way. He remembered distinctly the twin serpent tails on the wood panel hanging outside, though the etching underneath was written in the native Shii'ret tongue. This is where he'd managed to stumble into, with the bleeding female in his arms (blue blood on his new coat). No one had stopped him from entering then (or now), but every face had turned away as he gently deposited her limp body on a table, then demanded medical supplies (bandages, thread, anything you got, God dammit!). When he had started to work on her arms with the meager tools available—its occupants had slowly begun to filter outside.

He walked into that tavern in broad daylight, and felt a terrible déjà-vu as each person faced away again—only this time, they would not acknowledge_ his_ presence. McCoy did not understand; but he didn't have time to, either.

He approached the hostess behind the counter. She kept her eyes averted.

"I am looking for the…" he fiddled with his translator, "green-haired one." No response, which aggravated the knot of anger in McCoy's stomach. "I know you remember me!" he almost barked. Pushing down frustration, he took a deep breath. "_Please._"

She flinched, dropped her rag. McCoy waited. (What else could he do? Rage?)

"Ceri'a," she leaned forward, whispering. "By the Sea."

"Ceri'a? What is that? Her name?" Leonard jammed a hand through his hair.

The hostess picked up her rag again and moved away without another word.

_Well, a lot of good that did me. _McCoy slumped against the counter. His headache was back.

By the time he managed to get to the docks, the golden sky was darkening to grey. The occasional lap of water soothed Bones as he walked across the sturdy old boardwalk. (You're out here on a guess, Len, you fool old man.) He didn't expect to find her around, but there was little places left to go. Not back to the condo, not back to sleep, that's for damned sure.

So it was a great surprise when a small figure darted in front of his legs and away again. He jerked, hand on his chest to keep his heart inside.

A giggle came out from under the boardwalk. McCoy crept over to the railing, braced himself against it. He said, in his very limited Shii'reti, "Hello."

"Helllo…" A child's voice, hushed but still high-pitched.

"I'm lookin' for a lady with green hair. Seen any about?"

A small face appeared at the edge, looked up at him. "She's the Bad one. You're supposed to stay away from the Bad one!"

"Well, now. I'm a—" he paused, "healer. Even Bad ones get hurt. I need to help her. It would be wrong not to." _Not quite a lie, McCoy._

"You cannot heal a Bad one."

_In for a penny, in for a pound._ "I am a specialhealer. I can heal _anyone_."

A moment of silence, then "Oh."

Thank God, naivety is universal. "Where?"

"That way," a voice chirped and a small arm pointed north.

"Thank you, little one. Now, _get_, it's almost dark!"

Laughter again, the dark blur (loosely shaped into awkward juts and angles) scrambled onto the edge of the boardwalk and disappeared into the shadows.

McCoy faced north. But he paused when the voice rang out, suddenly sounding older than it should. "She's looking for her baby, but she won't find it! Be careful, do not take from-" here the translator shrieked and feel silent.

_I'll be careful_, McCoy assured himself. He knew just how dangerous she could be.

She was standing at the very edge of the northern dock. "Hello!" he called out.

Her posture did not change, only her dress (God, the one he'd last seen her in) shifted in the breeze. He caught the glimmer of dark stitches snaking down her right arm, where he'd had to patch her up as best he could. Both her arms were dirty. (Don't these people know to keep a wound clean?) That unkempt hair was foul green against the dusky sky.

McCoy tried, "Ceri'a."

And then she turned to face him, looking out of flat, cold eyes . "McCoy," she drew his name out, as if from a sheath. "McCoy."

There was no room left for small talk. "What did you do to me?"

"I had to feed us. The baby, my _baby_—" her nails curled in at this, "was hungry for it!"

What was she saying? It made no sense. "I am _not_ here to talk about a blasted baby! My mind—damn you—you're screwing with it!"

She opened her mouth (for the first time)—and a terrible keening came out. McCoy grimaced, and shook her by the shoulders. "Stop that! STOP IT!"

She latched onto the front of his shirt, digging in her nails. "Come with me, McCoy. The baby's waiting for us!"

"Get your hands off me, lady!"

"We belong out there!" And with surprising strength, she flung them both over the edge of the dock. McCoy immediately surfaced and spat out a mouth full of green water (not sweet-tasting, like the smell, _at all_).

"Ceri'a! Damn it! _Ceri'a!_"

Something grabbed his ankle and drug him under again. He flailed and struggled (such heavy clothes), but a body wrapped itself around him tightly, squeezing the fight out of him. Through a green haze—white sharpening the edges—he could barely make out the smile of Ceri'a's face.

She sang softly in his head, _Home, home, we return to the Sea! Baby waits for me._

Something _snapped _in his chest. Bones feared that she had broken one of his ribs, but there was no pain. He felt warm—unaccountably, comfortably warm (like being curled up next to Spock). Except it was in his lungs (oh God) and he instinctively gasped, drew a breath of water.

And did not choke. It tingled.

(No reflexive contraction of the trachea.)

His lungs pushed out the water like air.

Bones did the only human-thing possible. He panicked.

He thrashed in her arms, bit the nearest piece of her flesh, and when she finally let go, Bones broke the surface. By the time his hands were clutching at the sea-soaked wood, he was half-spewing water and sobs and _Oh_ _God_s.

He didn't remember dragging himself onto the dock, or stumbling off the boardwalk, tripping onto the sand.

He didn't remember Ceri'a either.

Until she came crawling out of the sea like a monster.

And by the time he was far south (lungs still burning), almost home, McCoy's mind had catalogued the night as (medically) impossible and "Do Not Disturb."

He half-heartedly shrugged off Spock's inquiry about the state of his clothes (water's churned up tonight, too close to the sea). Ignored dinner and fell into bed. When Jim crept in beside him some hours later, he was still terribly awake.


	7. A team of two

Jim stripped off his jacket and flung it over the nearest object. To an observer, his face was blank; anyone who truly understood James Tiberius Kirk would have already turned tail and started running. With the exception of a particular Vulcan, who calmly folded the discarded jacket and set it on a side table near the entrance. (The Captain is notorious for his inability to locate decent outerwear.)

"Bones!"

"Captain, I do not sense—"

"_Bones!" _the man just increased his volume. "BONES!"

Had his nature been wholly human, Spock might have flinched. "Jim, raising your voice will not bring Leonard here. He is not in the vicinity."

Kirk narrowed his eyes. "And where would he be, Spock?"

"_Captain_." Just the way Spock bit out the word—_you are lucky that I have (infinite) patience with you_—warned his human. "It is illogical to assume that I would be more aware of Leonard's activities than yourself."

After a deep (if somewhat ragged) breath, the hostility tightening Jim's shoulders released its grip. "Spock, I'm sorry. Of course you don't know any more than I do. I guess I am just a little… upset right now."

"A natural response for a human."

Jim gave a small chuckle. "It just might be." He perched on a stool, crossed his arms (tried to raise an eyebrow). "And how do half-humans respond when their lover has been errant and getting in _tremendous amounts of trouble_?"

_Like yourself, Jim-boy?_ Spock could almost hear McCoy's dry interceding comment. He answered as only he could—with a magnificent uplift of his brow. Which earned him a true (though short) laugh.

"Okay!" Jim sprang from the stool and began pacing. "What do we know so far? Bones hasn't been himself for several days."

Spock found it fascinating that Jim could not stay still for long periods of time (unless Leonard had him strapped down in Sickbay). "Correct. After the third night, he displayed symptoms of disturbed sleep. Upon inquiry, Leonard assured me that he was 'fine.' His mannerisms have also been affected: reluctance to communicate, social withdrawal, periods of despondence, paranoia—"

That gave Jim pause. "Paranoia, Spock?"

"Yes. A psychological disturbance in which—"

"I know the definition, thank you. But I haven't noticed Bones being overly paranoid. At least," he muttered, "more than usual."

"He has displayed several instances of—as human colloquium observes—'looking over his shoulder.' In particular, Leonard appears to anticipate an... altercation with the natives. Quite unexplainable, as the people of Shii'ret have proven to be largely accepting of and non-violent towards outworlders."

"Alright, paranoid it is." Running his fingers through his hair, Jim continued. "And we also know that at some point Bones_ did_ interact with the Shii'reti, _without _our presence."

"I suspect this occurred before the end of the third day, when Leonard offered to prepare our evening meal but did not return until 2.3 hours past the agreed time."

"He looked so tired, I thought… I know I was worried about him. He did say he had been held-up by a medical emergency in town." Which, at Bones' wording, had sounded like a hassle—he should have known better, Bones never treated a medical case like a burden—but a successful one. (_And no more questions, okay!_)

"Precisely. When Doctor McCoy physically assisted a native who is estranged from Shii'reti society."

"But what does that—" Jim swallowed, "you don't think they _hurt_ him, do you?" His face clouded over at the thought. "I swear…"

"I cannot speculate without knowledge of what transpired between the Doctor and this native. However," he unfolded a hand from his back and reached out to his lover—who quickly touched fingers with him, for reassurance, "Jim, Leonard has no visible markings of abuse."

"He has medical supplies."

"The medikit is not equipped to handle serious injuries, and the Shii'reti have a limited knowledge of medicine."

"This is Bones we talking about. The man denies exhaustion and ignores _bullet wounds_ so he can take care of others."

"Indeed, Doctor McCoy does have a predilection for such behavior."

"If he wasn't harmed, then what could have caused him to avoid us? Spock?" Jim felt his stomach drop at Spock's silence.

"You_ do_ think he was harmed, don't you? Not physically but mentally."

"Yes. It is the logical conclusion. He has abnormal sleep patterns and headaches. Also—" Spock drew a breath, "the bond I share with Leonard is somewhat impaired."

"Spock! _Impaired_… how could you not have mentioned that?" Jim almost looked angry again (only a quick moment).

"Jim, Leonard is not comfortable with a fully developed bond—you are aware of this fact. He has studied the technique of mental shielding quite well, and there are… occasions when the shields are strongly enforced. I accept such, for Leonard values the privacy of his mind."

"You thought he was blocking you on purpose. Another part of his strange behavior."

"Affirmative. I have great respect for Leonard. I would not cause him discomfort."

"And now?"

"I admit that I am uncertain. The lack of feeling from the bond is unnatural."

"We've got to get him to talk to us."

"Yes. We must confront Leonard."

Jim knew that—agreed with it, _welcomed _it. For Bones' sake.

"Until Leonard's return, I will research the data gathered by the Federation pertaining to this planet and its inhabitants."

"Let me help, Spock."

"Always, Jim."

Note: The reference to McCoy's bullet wound is from the TOS episode _A Private Little War_ in which Bones is shot (a flesh wound), and everyone, including him, promptly forgets about it in order to save the day. In particular, Bones is too focused on Kirk to pay attention to himself. Kudos to anyone who catches the second reference to another episode of TOS!

Just for clarification, you are allowed to mix and match TOS and AOS as you please. I absolutely adore TOS, but if I am forced to choose... this story would be set in AOS simply that 'verse is more flexible with its timeline (meaning TOS events could still happen) but not necessarily vice versa. I just want everyone to enjoy the story; knowing TOS only gets you brownie points!


	8. A lonely third

**Warning**: Some language.

It's growing dark, and he's chilled inside and out. His inner medical compass points dangerously close to hypothermia. But a man can't drown in broad daylight and not attract some attention.

Every few steps makes his wet clothes bunch up in awkward places and sets off his cursing again.

It has been confirmed: his body is as royally screwed as his mind. He'd make a wonderful science experiment. Spock would be so beyond fascinated, the Vulcan would have to find a new catchphrase.

Leonard has seen some pretty far-fetched things in his time (mostly since his CMO commission aboard the Enterprise). Hell, even mind tampering isn't new—it's almost a regular occurrence.

(Because every species they encounter must be more mentally gifted than the old plain Terrans. …And there's obviously a sign on his back that says "Hoodoo me" in large, bold_ translatable _letters.)

But redefining basic body functions? Sweet Jesus… the physics must be astounding. _This is why people chalk up crazy _impossible _shit to beads-and-rattles rather than science._

After two terrifying attempts, McCoy had managed to make himself stay underwater for longer than a minute. His brain sounded some pretty loud alarm bells twenty seconds later; deep breaths were not his forte. _Don't panic. Don't panic._

If it had been feasible to hyperventilate underwater, he'd have been halfway to unconscious.

Then it happened, that _snap_ in his chest (imagined alveoli bursting and tried not to pass out) and a creepy inward heat. Hardest of all had been fighting the instinct to keep his mouth shut, because there's a fine line between taking a risk and being stupid. (As a CMO worth his salt, Doctor McCoy delivers this particular speech often—_more often than should be necessary_.)

But he did do it—sucked in water and let it sit in his lungs like it God-damned_ belonged there_. And breathed out. In, out. Just like above the surface, only it's _not_ and (_fuck_) so very wrong.

A whooping four whole minutes passed, and McCoy had had enough. By then, it was also apparent that his eyes were screwed too, because they didn't sting but sharpened the clarity of a spectrum of green (almost pretty). He might have been wearing a pair of invisible goggles.

_No more._

Sitting on the dock, the doctor in him ran rampant. Spouting medical jargon, sputtering disbelief—wonder too—even drawing up a lovely little research title for the beginning of the many papers this would likely induce.

When he'd mentally fatigued himself, Leonard decided that all the eighth-world-wonder fame wasn't worth being a fucking fish.

So here he is, trudging back to face down the indomitable two. Undoubtedly, they've missed him by now and will be full of questions. Questions he's not sure he can answer without sounding like a loon (a petrified loon at that).

Maybe he should try for humor. _Jim, Spock—guess what? I've been cursed by a sea witch, and now I can deep-sea dive without an oxygen tank!_ (Ha. Jim would probably envy this...talent. Until McCoy starts growing scales and razor-sharp teeth.)

_And, oh yeah, I've seen you both die horribly too. All of Earth in fact._

(Ceri'a's smile comes to mind, coupled with the word _Inevitable_.)

He contemplates turning around, walking into the sea, and staying there. But Spock would eventually start knocking on his brain, locate him, and let Jim knock Bones on his ass.

Speaking of, Spock's been rather silent. Usually Leonard gets a couple of mental caresses across his shield (which he loves) throughout the day. But not recently. _C__an't blame Spock for retreating._ Leonard has not been entirely pleasant to be around since that first nightmare (and the utter exhaustion).

He just wants to be Doctor Leonard H. McCoy again—argument specialist and Jim-fixer-upper.

He just wants to be a man sharing his life with two wonderful people; Bones—who can enjoy a shore leave with good company, a good drink, and_ no_ complications.

He just wants to go back to_ before_ this hell-hole of a planet—even back to a packed Sickbay—and the insane_ thing_ that is Ceri'a (that she's made him too).

But most of all, he wants to ignore the call of the waves at his back… because now (he realizes) there's an itch inside his soul to return to the sea… lovers be damned.

Note: Now we know the mood of all three and what has to come next. Or does it? :) Comments welcome.


	9. Together is best

Leonard stops just outside the door, paying no mind as it slides shut behind him. Jim stares at him but says nothing, and Spock looks as serene as only Vulcans can in the face of a show-down.

"Can I at least change my clothes first?"

Jim shrugs. "Sure," he says.

As Leonard turns for the bedroom (and an escape), Jim adds at his back, "Oh and Bones? We'll be waiting." Leonard lingers on their faces (Jim's, hard, determined; Spock's, eyes gentle and dark). Once safely away, he swallows.

_Okay, McCoy._

_It's. Gonna. Be. Okay._

* * *

When he reappears in the kitchen, Spock and Jim are standing companionably side-by-side, each with a cup of tea in hand. Jim meets his eyes, and inclines his head towards a third cup on the counter. Leonard gratefully inhales the steam of the hot (sweet, as he likes it) tea.

"We should be seated," Spock announces.

He leads them into a tastefully decorated area (_look at this paraphernalia!_ Jim had disapproved on first sight). It does not escape Leonard's attention that Jim—on his left—is within barricade distance of a front door departure; nor that Spock positions himself an arm's length away to the right (in front of the deck doors, the direction quickest to the water's edge).

"I'm not—" "Bones, we know—"

Both Jim and Leonard jump in head-first. When Spock quirks his eyebrow at them, they look a little sheepishly at each other.

"Leonard, please, begin."

"Well, Spock, now I'm curious about what Jim has to say. Might be more enlightenin' than this old doctor's woes." He turns to Jim. _Passes the ball on._

"Bones, this involves _all_ of us—" Jim glances over at Spock, who nods affirmatively, "—whether or not you seem to want to include us."

Leonard sighs. "I know that. I do." He shuts his eyes briefly and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's serious."

No one says much for a moment. Jim's face has lost a little color. Spock is very still.

He refuses to look at either of them. "Tonight, I walked into the ocean and…I could have stayed there."

A quiet "Why?" (A smaller, whispered _incredulous_ "what?")

"Because I'm not myself anymore." He suddenly does not want to sit, but cannot move to get up. "Hell, I don't know! It's complicated."

This gets Jim to his feet. "Complicated! _Complicated_, Bones, does not cover it! You just said you wanted to drown yourself!"

"I—No! For Christ's sake, Jim. That's not what I meant! I mean," he stutters for a second. _Damn my big mouth!_

When Jim hitches forward, Spock calmly_ slowly_ lets his hand come to rest on Leonard's arm—which seems to make Jim check his momentum and pull back (collect himself).

"There are only three feasible explanations for your statement 'I could have stayed there.' Logic dictates to discard the possibility that you were referring to a positive event …"

"Correct, Spock, as always. I certainly didn't mean that I was havin' a rompin' good time!" Leonard bites down on a corner of his mouth.

"If you will allow me to proceed, Doctor? Then are two more _direct _variations: either you could physically stay in the ocean—" Jim coughs a little; Spock and Leonard meet eyes, "or it is as Jim interprets it."

"I don't want to kill myself. That's just plain crazy." He looks at them both. "I'm not leaving you two like that, I swear it."

"In a sense you have left us, Leonard, for the past several days."

"I know that, I'm sorry." _God, how much could he repeat himself?_ "I'm in a mess of trouble, and I thought I could fix it—_get over it—_myself." He does rise with those words, pacing in the small confinement between Jim, the couch, and chairs.

"Bones."

He turns on Jim. "Shore leave is supposed to be relaxing, Jim! How can we do that with every Tom, Dick, and Harry messing up our plans all the God-damned time!"

A wry smile. "Since when have we ever been so lucky?"

"_Not with you around_," he mumbles half-heartedly. A (wobbly) sigh. "Sorry, Jim, I don't mean that. It's my fault, truly. I got screwed with, and it's no one's fault but my own."

Jim makes a grab for his shoulders, says earnestly, "Listen, Bones. You're not at fault—No!" he bowls over Leonard's denial. "You are _not_. You help, not harm—anyone who takes advantage of that is…" His hands tighten with the all of the unsaid vulgar words.

"You know what I'm saying, Bones. How many times have you said it to me?"

That earns a little smile from Leonard. "Okay, Jim. I hear ya."

"Good. Then you know that, no matter what is going on, Spock and I only want to help you. Tell us what's wrong. What's happened?" He presses a hand to the doctor's cheek.

"Jim—" the name trails off uncertainly.

"_Please_, Bones." (It breaks him, a little, inside.)

"Leonard." Long fingers touch his back, the curve of his neck. "Today, we learned of your encounter with a Shii'reti." Spock's voice is quiet. "Is this the cause of your distress?"

And he's almost blown wide open.

"Yes. Yes, it's about that, about her. She—" his throat is contracted (so damned tight) "she's not _normal_." _As far from normal as it gets (like me now)._

"_She's changed me_," he whispers and drops his head on Jim's shoulder. (Breathes in that scent of Jim and wants to cry.) Two pairs of arms secure him to the earth.

"_I'm scared._" A second admission to weakness, to _need._

There are cool fingers trailing through his hair.

"We're all scared, Bones. But that's okay because we are all _here_, and no one—_no one_—is going to leave." His face is in loving hands. "We promised, Bones, remember? No leaving allowed."

His mouth trembles _yes_, a hand automatically seeks to find Spock (grasp and hold on).

But he's still scared—afraid that there won't be a choice for any of them.

* * *

When they maneuver him onto the couch, Jim on his knees holding Leonard's hands and Spock's got him against his chest, Leonard gives in.

He tells them about Ceri'a and the nightmarish 'prophecies' but not the _how_ or _when_. He skims over the incident at the northern dock, and just says he feels _different _somehow (not that he _knows_ he is). He does not mention the (building) urge to return to the sea.

They all take a moment to touch each other reassuringly.

Then Jim and Spock tell him about the story of the first Shii'reti and the strict attitude of the people. Together, they ponder the implications of this unnerving situation (as shore leave becomes officially irrelevant).

_What is it about the ocean on this planet that makes the consumption of its organisms dangerous?_

_How does it affect the Shii'reti? Are those effects mental, physical, or both?_

_And (_Lord, Bones says aloud_) if it's a disease, what is the contagion? (Not accounting for inter-species transference…)_

It is Spock who appeals to the scientist in McCoy, suggests researching the components of the sea-water and sea-specimens. Jim decides to call in a few favors to get a laboratory set up. And unsurprisingly both of these men (he loves dearly) are in silent agreement about handling the natives (_and Ceri'a_) on McCoy's behalf. He doesn't bother asking them exactly what it is they plan to do. He is just grateful.

Yet no one voices the question _Is there a cure?_—which is foremost on Leonard's mind.

Note: Sorry, I didn't have the heart to write an angry confrontation... not with this established K/S/M!


	10. A complicated people

The people of Shii'ret fall into the humanoid category. They are bipedal, capable of independent (intelligent) thought, and share several similar biological processes with Terrans. But unlike Man from planet Earth, these _humanoids_ are farther behind in scientific development—purposefully, as if it does not matter to them. They express no desire to travel in space or seek out other life-forms (aside from agreeing to join the Federation). The people simply do not wish to leave Home by the sea.

It is rumored that once an outworlder fell in love with a native Shii'reti—convinced her to travel with him. She died immediately upon departure of the shuttle from the planet's surface. The account (in some obscure article Spock unearthed) reads, "She wilted like a flower without the sun."

"Gee, Spock, that sure makes me feel better," McCoy drawls over his PADD.

"Your feeling is irrelevant, Doctor. The article indicates—"

Bones looks over at Jim (who chokes on a snicker) and raises his eyebrow. "If any _other_ person had just said that to me, I'd be insulted." He stops, considers. "Ah Hell, who am I kidding? I _am_ insulted, Spock!"

Spock does not smile, as he is properly trained in Vulcan stoicism. "I do not find this unusual. You frequently feel insulted without provocation."

Jim interrupts before Bones can express his righteous indignation. "Enough, you two. Tell us your theories on the article, Spock, since you took the time to read it aloud."

"There may be some factual evidence that this female Shii'reti died aboard the shuttlecraft from natural complications."

"He means that she wasn't necessarily murdered by her relatives for taking off with an alien. It could have been organ failure, a natural birth defect—any number of things!" Doctor McCoy looks nonplussed. "Maybe it was just shitty timing. We can't really know what happened, Spock."

"Bones, let him finish," Jim commands.

"You are correct. We do not have access to the actual events. However, by logical deduction—" (Bones emanates glee. "Oh Lord! A Vulcan guess!") "Leonard," Spock says with an infinitesimal hint of annoyance, "would you rather I did not continue?"

"No, no. Sorry."

"The natives must be physically dependent upon this planet."

"Hmm… a biochemical imperative that keeps them planetside. That's brilliant!"

"Also a phenomenon that the Federation has encountered in the past."

Jim paces around them both. "I think I remember reading about that at the Academy. The—uh…"

"The Hions, Jim, located in the Zeta-Mu IV solar system. A race of humanoids—"

"Didn't they have wings?"

"—_winged_ humanoids whose immune systems were acclimated to a combination of virulent gases in the atmosphere of their planet."

Bones adds, "Similar, yes. However, this is an M-class planet with an oxygen-based atmosphere. She wouldn't have_ suffocated _on that shuttle ride!"

"We determined by chemical titration that the salinity factor of the ocean averages 0.458%."

McCoy has his chin in hand and narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "That's low—because instead of mostly salt in the water, there are high levels of some other strange compound."

"The question remains: what is the connection between this unknown agent and the Shii'reti?" The Vulcan indeed looks fascinated.

"Do they depend on it?" McCoy picks up the thread. "We need to get our hands on a native. If their bodies are full of this stuff… "

Spock grows taller, matches his eyebrow to McCoy's. "We will have a lead in our investigation."

* * *

"No, Jim, you crazed fool! Absolutely NOT!"

"Bones, she attacked you because she's _infected_."

"Because she's bat-shit crazy! And did I mention dangerous?"

"Spock and I will be careful."

"Jim, you haven't listened to a damned thing I've said!"

Spock can probably hear the shouting (when Leonard is this _frantic_, he increases his volume substantially) from the beach, where he is currently gathering more cultures for the makeshift lab.

"We're doing this, Doctor McCoy! File a report on my insanity later, if it will appease you."

Bones is fairly vibrating now. "You don't get to pull that card with me, Jimmy-boy. This is not a God-damned mission!—(_the pupils of Jim's eyes dilate; his eyes are dark, dark_)—I don't care how logical you and the Vulcan think it is—"

"It is logical that we need the female, Doctor. " Spock steps into the bedroom. (Vulcans are uncanny.) "You understand that we cannot draw conclusions without all the pertinent data—in particular, that which pertains to the effect of consuming material from the ocean."

"I don't care, okay! We're going to stop the whole fucking experiment right now. She's too dangerous—you don't _understand_. You can't risk your lives, your minds—everything!"

"Then whose, Bones? Because if we don't figure this out—we risk losing _you_." Jim is so close to Leonard, he can feel little puffs of breath on his face. "That's _never_ acceptable."

He wants to say, _It's always acceptable, Captain. God help you._ "Better me than all three of us."

"Leonard, if it were Jim or I in such a position, you cannot deny what your actions would be."

"No, Spock, I know I would tear this earth apart. But I just can't accept—"

"We do not require your acceptance, only your understanding that you are as valuable to us as we are to you. There is no choice in the matter. We will help you."

"Then for God's sake, at least let me go with you!" Leonard wants to shake the force that is Jim and Spock. Instead, he pleads. "_Please_, I've got to be there with you."

Jim is rubbing Leonard's arms in soothing circles (only it makes him rattle with _Nonono_). "Not this time, Bones."

And Jim and Spock leave him behind with an "I promise we'll be okay" dying in the air around him.


	11. The word is given

Bones is alone in the condo for ten agonizing minutes before he grabs the medikit from the bathroom and bolts after Jim and Spock.

* * *

Of course, the first place Jim and Spock approach is the little tavern that seems to be the center of the drama unfolding on the Square.

They both have been here several times since Bones finally opened up to them (though much too sparsely for either's liking). That following morning, they had left him in their bed, with less worry lines around his eyes, in a placid (trouble-less) sleep. Jim made quite the scene at the tavern: demanding to speak to the old man, intimidating the poor hostess with sharp questions. Only Spock had occasionally intervened when Jim was close to losing his control; otherwise, he too had tired of waiting for answers (not when Leonard _needed _them).

That first time had impressed upon these people that the two lovers of Leonard McCoy were not going to stand idly by and watch their third lose himself. They would be relentless.

After Jim managed to have more than a few supplies beamed down for a temporary (but competent—Spock insisted) laboratory, he went directly to the tavern again (alone) and stated in no uncertain terms that they would cooperate with any procedures necessary to the ongoing investigation. _As a representative of the Federation, I am here to give you fair warning. We do NOT tolerate harm against any member of our organization. You will comply, and we will not prosecute you. Am I understood? _

Okay, maybe Jim had stretched a little beyond the rights granted to a captain, but he knew in his heart the risk was worth it.

He was given immediate (slightly fearful) assurance from those present. Word spread quickly elsewhere.

The third time, Spock needed a volunteer for testing purposes.

_Spock entered, stopped, and observed that more than half of the usual amount of patrons were absent from the tavern. When Jim became visible behind him, those that were there almost seemed to shrink into their chairs. Spock made no comment, though he did raise his eyebrow at Jim (_Captain?_). An answering twinkle in Jim's eyes was the only reply._

_The hostess was wide-eyed and clutched a rag (the same old one) in her hands. She said the equivalent of "We will cooperate!"_

_Spock found the statement odd, given that he had made no request. "We require a willing participant in our studies."_

"_Yes, we will cooperate!" She pointed at herself and the others around her._

_Spock said nothing for a full minute, then simply detached a case from his belt and gestured to a nearby stool. "Please sit down."_

_She looked at the stool, at Spock, then at the Captain (who simply stared back) and hurried to do as they bade her. _

_Spock donned gloves, and proceeded to gather a wealth of non-invasive samples (skin, salvia, blood, etc.) from his test subjects as Jim herded all of the rest into line. (McCoy made no comment—when Spock handed him the full case—other than "We certainly won't need seconds, will we?")_

When they swing open the doors, the tavern is deserted. No one hangs about in the shadows, by the bar; there is no hostess nor an old man gently murmuring to himself.

Jim looks at Spock and says, "What's Plan B?"

* * *

Leonard has no intention of catching up with Jim and Spock. He plans to get to Ceri'a before they do. And luckily for him, Leonard's got a damned good idea where she'll be. (After all, he wants to be there too, doesn't he?)

So he follows that gut instinct (that annoying buzz calling him onward) past the city outskirts, past the docks. Practically on the edge of nowhere, it seems, where a tall cliff hangs out over the sea in foreboding fashion. She's at its base, perched on a rock arranging strange little shells in a line. McCoy stops at the edge of the shore where sand meets sea and a long, long wall of cliff.

_Ceri'a_, he thinks loudly. Her head turns in his direction, the wind whipping it into snarls and tangles. He knows she's looking at him now, though he cannot see her face, because he feels dreadfully cold and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.

McCoy makes a show of circling in the sand until he plops down in one spot a good many feet from the water.

If he waits long enough, she will come to him. Of that, he is absolutely sure.

* * *

Jim finally manages to catch one of the Shii'reti. He corners the young man between the walls of an alley, with Spock looming (disapprovingly) in the background.

"Where is she?" he asks ominously. Jim is not angry or off-his-rocker, as Bones would say, but he knows from experience that the only way to get a response from these people is to wrangle it out of them with power. (They respect, and acquiesce to, power.)

The man's face is white with a tint of blue, which makes him look like a corpse (a sight Jim is intimately acquainted with because of Tarsus). Jim swallows the bile rising in his throat, shoves away those memories.

Captain Kirk leans in a little, 'unhappy' written all over his face.

The man squeaks, points in a direction.

"Uh-uh. That's not how this works," Jim says. "Take us there."

"Captain," Spock comes up behind them both. "Perhaps it is unwise…"

Their captive takes that interlude to lurch out of Kirk's grip and attempt to run. Jim latches onto him, swings him around (_no, Jim, don't punch the fellow_), and tries not to topple over with the dead weight against him once Spock nerve-pinches the man.

"Jesus, Spock! A little warning next time!" he pants out.

"If you agree to inform me when your 'Plan B' involves taking prisoners, Captain."

* * *

She slithers onto the sand. McCoy resists the urge to help her up. It's obvious her legs are not working right, because they drag behind her uselessly. (_Paralysis_, his mind displays a list of conditions with this symptom.)

By the time Ceri'a reaches him, she has spit out the seawater from her lungs and regards him with a cool eye. "McCoy has come back."

_Yes, McCoy is a fool—with two foolish lovers._

He plays along, even with churning insides. "Yes, darling," his voice gives the word a sweet edge, "McCoy comes back to Ceri'a."

Her smile is full of shark-like teeth. Leonard wills his heart to pump a little slower. (Never give the scent of fear.)

Suddenly, lowering his shields seems like a wonderful idea. _Spock… Spock?_

"Spock. Spock!" Ceri'a mimics the call, and McCoy is on her in an instant. His vision is too dark, too angry. Those words… _out of her_ _mouth_, he'll be _damned_ if he lets her take that intimacy away from him! Not _Spock_, not _Jim_!

She mauls his arms and scratches long nails on his face. When she sinks her teeth in his shoulder, Bones throws them both down, forces her head back, and jabs a hypospray full of sedatives right into her neck.

When she finally, _finally_ goes limp on top of him, Leonard rolls her off and closes his eyes against the water splashing at the sand on his face. He realizes, with a heart wrench, that she has managed to drag him to the edge of the sea, _like dinner_.

He takes his time collecting samples from the beast.

* * *

It is little effort to convince the young man, after he wakes up from oblivion, to lead them. They come upon a small cottage (weeds in the cracks of laid mud and stones) with its door ajar. When their guide will get no closer than a hundred yards, they abandon him and approach the cottage with phasers drawn. (Jim made the weapons an order along with the science materials.)

The smell is atrocious. Spock sways at the first wind that hurls the scent in their faces. It's rank decay. Jim (unfortunately) knows this smell too.

A brisk "Hello?" but only the sound is the waves breaking far off in the distance.

There is no one inside this place either. The cottage is one large room, separated into quarters—for eating, sleeping—and it is automatically the mess on the kitchen floor that catches their attention.

Spock squats down to examine the contents with his tricorder. (Jim thinks he is holding his breath—God knows, that's what Kirk is attempting to do.) A moment later, Spock tells him, "Captain, this matches one of the specimens McCoy and I have tested."

"You mean, it's the seafood that woman ate?"

"Yes, it appears so. The state of decay indicates a time frame of at least sixteen days prior."

Jim nods his head to show that he has heard Spock. He is walking around the room, nudging items with his boot (not touching with his hands—McCoy would be proud). There is a bundle on the cot in the corner. When Jim lifts the edge of it with his phaser, he makes a terrible strangled noise and is across the room before Spock can blink.

Spock touches Jim, who (_is not trembling_) gives him an "I'm okay" smile.

After studying the bundle in question, Spock says in a hushed voice, "The infant is deceased."

"Recently?"

Spock drops the shroud back into place. "No. I am unable—if the Doctor were here—I believe approximately two weeks."

With a forced breath (through his mouth), Jim's voice comes out sharp. "Wrap up the… fish or whatever it is. I'll, I will take care of the rest."

"Jim, if you prefer…"

"No, Spock, I said I'll do it."

By the time Spock has collected the remnants of a long-ago meal, Jim has laid the dead child to rest.

Note: McCoy seems to be tired of the victim role... Oh well. *fiddles with an imaginary set of eyeglasses* If you had to categorize this story, would you say it was… a) morbid, b) crack-tastic, or c) just plain creepy? (Spock would say I'm full of crack—even though I swear I'm not; Bones would go for 'demented' which isn't a choice… and I'm not entirely sure Jim's response would be appropriate, in lieu of his affinity for mermaid tails.


	12. One revelation too many

**Warning:** Take this with a grain of salt. I'm not that scientific-minded. :(

Doctor McCoy goes straight to the lab. He takes only a moment to cleanse his wounds and seal them up with a dermal regenerator. He is fairly positive that he has just saved both Jim and Spock from the terrible consequences of wrangling with Ceri'a. Now it's a matter of explaining that to them—which he is also sure is a conversation he will regret.

He is halfway through jotting down a few notes about the blood cells under his (old-fashioned) microscope when Spock and Jim come banging through the entryway—mostly Jim, that is. Spock casts his sharp eyes over McCoy and the various instruments laid out around him before proceeding over to a cooling unit. Bones has only five seconds before he is spun around on his stool (_thank God, it rotates with him_).

Surprisingly, Jim does not look angry—only resigned. "How did you manage to track her down?" he wants to know.

"Whatever it is she's done to me, we're connected—" (_Not like a bond_.) He turns back to his work, with a lowered head. "I just knew where she would be, Jim." Those words are painful to say, though they won't realize that.

Spock reaches over his shoulder, tracing the lines of new skin on his face with a soft fingertip. Leonard shudders.

"Are you in need of medical attention?"

"No, I'm alright." His tone says _trust me_.

They both let it go at that. It unnerves McCoy more than he can explain. Verbal castigation he expects, can accept (and even give back times three). But this lack of fight—of concern—from Jim and Spock sets off all the alarms in his brain.

He gives them his full attention and examines each from head-to-toe with a Doctor's eyes. "You want to tell me what trouble you've gotten into? Scratch that—" he prods a little around Jim's ribcage. "Better start with where you're injured."

Spock prevents Bones from reaching for the medikit. "We are unharmed, Doctor."

"Yeah, Bones," Jim smiles with his mouth (but not his eyes), "I promised, didn't I?"

"I don't believe promises that I know you can't keep, Jim, my boy. The universe is against you staying in one piece." _Must be karma_, he mutters.

He'll forego running the medical tricorder over them because he is satisfied that they are in good physical shape right now. (He'll do it later once they are sleeping.)

"You want to tell me what Spock put in the cooler?"

"It is the remains of an indigenous fish we discovered inside your attacker's lodgings."

"A blue 'ream or one of those little buggers with the orange stripes?"

"The striped, Doctor."

"Half-eaten, you don't say." McCoy leans against the long steel table and crosses his arms. "This is what she 'took from the sea?'"

"We think so, Bones."

"That's damned lucky. Now all we have to do is fit all the puzzle pieces together. I'll finish the analysis of these samples. Spock, you up for a little dissection?"

Jim places a friendly hand on the Vulcan's shoulder. "We'd better find a face mask for you, Spock. That fish stinks!"

* * *

"Fascinating."

"Ain't it though?" Leonard compares the findings and is amazed. _What the Hell kind of species is this?_

Jim looks between them and is clearly impatient for an explanation. "How about letting me in on the _fascinating_ discovery, okay?"

"Jim, I don't how to say this without sounding crazy… these people are overdue in the evolution department."

Jim's look means _you can do better than that, Bones_.

"Hell, I don't really understand it myself. I'm a doctor, not a geneticist!"

"Doctor McCoy refers to the structure of the DNA matter in each test subject—with the exception of the recent culture."

"That's right, Cer—_her_—DNA has been _rearranged_ by some trigger...we think—" he pauses, looks at Spock who answers the silent question with an inclination of his head. "Do you remember that new element Spock and I mentioned, the one that saturates the ocean here? Well, apparently anything that comes out of the sea is chock full of it. The Shii'reti, on the other hand, have it in a very low concentration."

"We isolated the compound in a variety of specimens."

"It's what killed the Shii'reti in the article—or the lack of it."

"How?"

"That's the kicker, Jim. She only died because she wasn't on the planet. This here—" he pushes a PADD under Jim's nose, "shows that the Shii'reti are carrying the compound in their bloodstream."

Spock adds, "A majority of crustaceans have hemocyanin in their cells which binds oxygen, unlike humans which produce hemoglobin to perform this function. The Shii'reti's bloodstream has neither, instead utilizing a protein we have not previously identified."

"And it binds more than O2, but that concentration of … Damn it, Spock, we've got to think of a name for it, you know!" Spock makes no reply. Leonard continues on, "You are aware of what happens if your O2 sats drop, Jim. Imagine that, only this element is what she didn't get enough of! Of course, because the shuttlecraft filters only the kind of air you and I—and Spock—breathe."

"So she _did_ suffocate."

McCoy gives Jim a half-smile. "She did."

"What does that have to do with their DNA?"

"We believe it to be more than just a respiratory gas, Captain. It is a reactive agent which, when introduced into the Shii'reti's body in large quantities, has sufficient presence to incite a chemical process with the DNA molecules."

"Meaning, it rewrites the instructions for the body."

There is a period of contemplation which they use to absorb the facts. "So the basics of the situation, Bones, is that if these people cannot maintain a stable level of—It—then they either die or mutate."

McCoy hikes his eyebrow. "Up shit creek without a paddle."

"Unnecessary commentary, Doctor."

"Damn, Spock, have a heart. We just made a discovery that will rile the Vulcan Science Academy like anxious little bees!"

"Vulcans do not 'rile' in the name of science."

Leonard just smirks and drags a hand up Spock's arm. "Don't they, darlin'?"

"Bones, celebration later." Jim squeezes himself into the fold, despite his words.

Spock takes the lead of the conversation once he slips away from petting human hands. "We understand the why of the 'Change' that occurs to the people of Shii'ret, but not the result of the mutation."

"Spock, the natives seem to think they evolved from a sea creature ("a mermaid," intercedes Jim winningly)—yes, Jim, a _mermaid_, you infant—and they literally worship the water like it's holy—so maybe it is a component of their genetic makeup (or what-have-you, McCoy waves his hands to infer Spock-nonsense) that remains dormant. Until they actually _ingest_ anything remotely from the ocean." _Makes 'em crazier than the hooch from Engineering._

"They gain mental foresight (derangement, McCoy wants to add) and an ability to intrude on other mental faculties."

_Yes, Spock. To fuck with minds._

Spock queries, "Are there other apparent symptoms?"

McCoy is silent. Jim begins tossing out wild suggestions, Spock repeating the word "Illogical" at each. McCoy drinks in the sight of them—Jim with the light glinting on his hair; Spock equally dark as Jim is light and as beautiful.

_Damn._

"It gives the Shii'reti the ability to breathe underwater. Changes their physiology drastically—to some kind of aquatic life-form. Their teeth and nails are sharper (_for tearing flesh, he doesn't clutch at his arm_), their ability to communicate is shifted to telepathy rather than phonation—"

Jim and Spock turn as one, observe McCoy walking back and forth across a strip of room as he rattles off a list.

"Bones…"

"—the mutations are rapid once the course is set—"

"Bones!"

"—and damn it all to Hell, Jim, Spock, it induces a sort of paralysis of the lower body but_ how does she move through the water like th_—"

It's Spock who stills Leonard's movement. "You have withheld information, Leonard."

"You'd already figured it out, Spock. The one of three logical explanations: '_you could physically stay in the ocean_,' remember?"

"My God, Bones, what're you—"

"Logical! The other two _weren't_ _feasible_." McCoy starts to shake in the Vulcan's grasp. "I tried—I couldn't—_admit_ that you were right."

He looks directly over at Jim. "Yeah, I know what I'm saying, Captain. I am not _human_, okay!" he spits out the word like a bad taste (it used to be sweet).

"I know what the Change is because I was _there_ with _her_ and it took me too…" he trails off. Then quietly, "It was so strange, so _surreal_, like you wouldn't believe. To breathe water. Terrifying."

When he smiles, it is an ugly thing on his face. "I keep expectin' to wake up in the sea, clueless as to who I am, clueless about every damned little thing that ever meant somethin' to me. Do you know what that's like?"

Spock has dropped his arms. Jim doesn't touch him either.

"No, you don't. I am not a man any more. I am not Doctor McCoy or Leonard or… t'hy'la." He taps his head. "Can you even hear me, Spock?"

"No."

His laugh is harsh.

When he's quiet again (like they are), there is only the hum of running equipment. Bones glances at no one, pushes past and exits the lab.

He's half way across the street when he hears the _slam_ of a door. Dirt is clouding in his wake as he moves through the Square. There are the sounds of boots on gravel behind him.

Leonard knows they are following. He's glad for it. He only wants to do this demonstration once.

And then kiss his lovers goodbye.


	13. It never ends well, or at all

The sea is angry. It spits foam along the jetty and smashes itself against posts sunk deep into the seabed. Bones decides that he might as well complete this exercise (in futility) by walking straight over the edge; he'd make a flying leap, but any increase in his gait will alert the two men just stepping off the boardwalk to his intentions. They won't be happy about the results either way.

So he keeps his pace steady, nonchalant, like a lover's stroll.

(He'd appreciate the time to shuck his boots but that won't be happening.)

Jim doesn't call out his name (nickname, birth-name, or otherwise) and ask him to wait up. Both Spock and Kirk are silent stalkers—the solidarity at his back. He's going to miss them very much.

The green waters are inviting, despite the tempest. Something inside him sings to the tune of the _crash-crash-crash _and it's almost more than he can bear. (The water in his eyes might be tears of heartbreak.)

Then he takes the final step from the real world, into air, and disappears out of sight.

* * *

When Bones walks off the edge of the dock, Jim thinks time stopped. It mocked him with a cruelty he could barely comprehend, said "no more Bones, no more Bones" until Jim caught his next breath and dove into a run.

_Why had they let him get so far ahead?_

(Because he was uncertain about things he should never question.)

He is dimly aware of a strong grip hauling him back from his pitch into the sea after Bones. He might have heard frantic yelling, the smack of soft flesh under his unforgiving hands.

_Why had they let him go?_

"Bones! BONES!"

He twists like a snake and claws like a bear, but no amount of force can shake the hold binding him. Panting, he calls out for Spock to help him, and surprisingly a voice orders in his ear.

"Jim, I am here. Calm yourself!"

He manages to still for a second or two. There is nothing but rocking green below them stretching out too far. Empty.

It's panic that is sharp in his mind, repeating _He's drowning, Bones is drowning…_

_He will not drown. He cannot drown. Jim. Be calm; be calm and wait. _A security blanket, lovingly ragged at the edges, wraps around his mind—quells the terror and the fear and the _loss_.

He knows that waiting is too hard a task. He does it anyway.

* * *

Spock has carefully sorted through his thoughts—categorized them into a series of possible, impossible, and improbable (but viable nonetheless). He has concluded that he has acted illogically (foolishly) by allowing Leonard to distract him from the task of discovering the truth. He is aware that it remains_ illogical_ to feel guilt. Time does not afford him the use of emotions.

Doctor McCoy is more affected by the Shii'reti than he anticipates. If his word is to be believed (and Spock refers to the Doctor as many things—but a liar in not one of them), then the man can indeed be a scientific marvel. And Leonard knows exactly what he is doing when he drops into the ocean, without aid, without Jim or Spock right next to him.

It is only these musings—conclusions—that keep the rational mind functioning in Spock and not the primal _protect-defend_ of the bond (despite its recent quietness).

He calculates the probability that Leonard is correct (sane) and will survive—finds them acceptable (marginally) and thus focuses his attention on the other wild bondmate. One that will, in fact, do himself harm if Spock slackens his grip.

He wills his body not to disobey his decision to remain above-water when the counter in his head hits one full minute.

_One full minute that Leonard remains submerged, unseen._

He wills Jim to stay in his arms when two full minutes have passed.

_Two minutes of no air._

There is no distress along the bond from Doctor McCoy.

_Two minutes twenty-one seconds._

_Two minutes forty-four seconds._

Jim still chants Leonard's name softly, like a mantra that keeps his soul in one piece. Just when Spock feels the coil of muscles, knows Jim is about to fight him again (and Spock may just let him go, go _with_ him… this has gone on _long enough_...)

A face floats to the surface.

But it is not Leonard's face.

There are fish eyes and billowing hair (it could be sea-strands, the color is so similar). A wide mouth with shining rows of teeth, and streaks—long thin curling streaks of red rising up...

Shii'reti blood is blue.

_Human_ blood is red.

There is a cry in the air, in his mind; Spock never recalls whether Jim, himself, or both produced that sound. He only ever remembers the emptiness where Jim should have been, of the _splash_ and the animal shriek of the monster, and knowing that wherever Leonard and Jim go, he follows without thought.

* * *

Bones realizes his impetuous mistake the moment he feels he is not alone in the sea. There is a swift wake coming through the water, and the shiny blue fish that had come to investigate his disturbance of their domain scatter amidst the barnacles clinging to the posts.

The water calms him, though, and by now he knows he should go up to the surface to meet his fate (the two hazy figures far, far above).

Then the fish flea and sea-weeds sway violently as a _blur_ hits him sideways. He has no more than a moment of _Oh fucking God_ before Ceri'a takes a hunk of his thigh and darts into the shadows of the deep.

His vision is white with pain and only the (screwed up) new instinct to breathe water keeps him from passing out. He sinks slowly to the mud, hangs there for an intermittent amount of time. (Seconds.)

_Where is she? Is she coming back?_

His left hand clamps around the wound (hurts, but the salt water doesn't sting it), to keep the seepage to a minimum, from attracting her (or God forbid, other predators).

It's weird, but he thinks he can scent his own blood on the water.

_McCoy._

_Stay the fuck away!_ Leonard thinks back at her.

She's amused, he knows it. She's amused and something more, something dangerous—she's angry.

_You take from Ceri'a, McCoy. You take without asking. _

He is quiet—the mouse to the hunting cat.

She screams in his head. _Never take from the sea! Nevernevernever!_

That's when he makes out her shadow flitting along the posts, close to the surface. His eyes catch the glint of sunlight in the blackness, through the boards of the dock. He thinks, acid rising in his throat, of Jim and Spock up there.

_Or the sea will take from you, McCoy. _

She's angry and terribly hungry—for revenge.

When she goes for the surface, for the most precious parts of McCoy, Leonard surrounds himself with red. The red of alarm, of anger, of his life's blood. Of his very Human heart.

He latches onto her (hard-scaled) legs the moment his counterparts come crashing into the sea.

**Note**: We're entering the home stretch (I think). A few more parts left. This fic is emotionally draining; I need to re-charge. Please tell me you guys are faring better!


	14. Once again, here we go

It's mass confusion.

Ceri'a plans to drag Leonard's mates into deep watery graves and make a snack or two of them (Bones gets nasty mental images along said-lines) but she is hampered by the man wrapped around her legs. She bucks, he twists. The scales patching her skin are slippery in the water, and his grip is clumsy at best. So he digs his nails in under them—rips out two or three. There is blue and red in the water now, a murky combination in the green (a black ink).

She breaks out of the water like a shark coming to bear on a tasty morsel. But Bones weighs her down, makes the arch snap in the middle and fall flat. There is shouting and water slapping his face; hands trying to cling to him and someone's left bloody stripes down his chest and no right sleeve to his shirt.

He knows who is going to save Jim and Spock—_he is_. But who will save Leonard McCoy, because damned if his energy isn't flagging fast while this wild creature shows no sign of abating her attack.

There is little time to make a plan. He (numbly) understands that the moment he releases her, she will come right back, only not for him. So he curses and spits and wishes to God he was a Vulcan because he would nerve pinch this bitch straight back to Hell.

Any other thoughts are broken into pain when she swerves and deliberates smashes him rib-side into a dock post. A distant "Bones!" is muted over the rushing in his ears as they sink down. Leonard doesn't think, can't think, only clenches his fist tightly so Ceri'a can't get away. His boots are crunching through the shells attached to the wood as he seeks purchase to hold them both. It's hard, with the water shoving him against the post as the waves come in and sucking to pull him out to sea as they fall back out.

But he'll be God-damned if he lets her go.

She swings around to face him, and they hang there, underwater—two enemies—for a heartbeat.

Her eyes say, _They are already dead men._

It's at this moment that Leonard sees something far beyond saving. He never wants to kill, but now he realizes it would be a sweet mercy to put Ceri'a down. The healer in him hates lost (wasted) life; the _man_ acknowledges the hard truth—not everyone can be saved.

He doesn't get the chance to choose.

Ceri'a bares a wicked grin as Bones feels a body tuck into his back. _Jim, no! _His mind rails because it can be no other. Jim has hooked a leg into Leonard's, an arm securing back to chest; Bones flittingly thinks of their sleeping positions (_Lord let me feel that again_) before the beast in front of him lunges with a scream of water, jaws wide for them both.

Spock appears upside down, over her right shoulder and Leonard has a second to marvel (_a water-bound Vulcan!_) before Spock's free hand grabs her green hair and _cracks_ her head into the post.

The cold light in her eyes goes out.

Relief floods his limbs (shock, says the brain). The hand clutching Ceri'a does not know to let go. All is eerily still—a tomb of water. Bones is on the verge of movement (to Spock) when he jars abruptly at a terrible _snap_ in his chest (like a chain breaking) and suddenly he can't breathe anymore. His lungs are full of seawater and his body goes traitorous, seizes and _Oh God_ he needs _air there' s _no_ air there's no_—

* * *

Everything is fuzzy: sounds are fuzzy, his limbs are fuzzy, and that something stroking his face makes it all fuzzier. He gives in to nothing.

* * *

He's dreaming; there is no other explanation. The world is white and quiet and softly beeping. _Oh Lord_, he thinks, _Heaven looks like Sickbay_. Not that he doesn't love (and appreciate) a fine Sickbay, but a man doesn't want to die just to end up back at work.

It's _fucking_ illogical.

That makes his brain jumpstart because ("_S-spock?"_) he remembers Spock—dear, wonderful calculator Spock—delivering some high-end justice to a terminally ill problem.

The beeping is louder, annoying really, now that he thinks of Ceri'a. _Is she dead?_

'Cause he's dead, he's pretty sure. And it would be a damned shame if she's still swimming around tryin' to eat his lovers.

One set of his fingers are being squeezed (a little painfully) while the others are brushed, shifted around (into a familiar pattern, it's bleary to his mind).

"_Leonard…_" the word is soft, and suddenly his thoughts detangle themselves into smooth lines.

The sweet caress across his inner shield is one he hasn't felt in _ages_. It makes him tremble and unable to resist opening his eyes when he hears the word "Bones."

Jim and Spock.

They are still with him; he is still with them. _Sweet Jesus, thank you._ It's the only prayer he can muster.

* * *

When Bones drifts back into sleep, Jim lays his head down on the biobed and thanks every Deity his brain can dreg up. It's a long, long list and he has the time (because Bones is going to be _okay_).

Spock cannot persuade him to rest on his own, so the Vulcan just waits until the opportune moment (when Jim is on Deity thirty-six) to physically remove him to the next biobed. Jim doesn't let him get away, however; he rolls onto his side, pulling Spock's arm with him—and, subsequently, Spock into bed too.

They settle into exhaustion.

Jim dreams about a green-haired woman with long fangs and a split skull laughing over them as Jim and Spock try desperately to pump the water out of McCoy's lungs.

* * *

Upon his third coherent wakening, Doctor McCoy wants out of the biobed _now_. Chapel—his trusty, hypospray–back-stabbing head nurse—rolls her eyes at him and says "shall I get the special straps?"

Leonard would pout but he's too old. Never mind that his bottom lip protrudes a little, it's out-classed by the epic snarl-fest that seems to go on _forever_ (until a fed-up Chapel comms the Captain and First Officer).

McCoy proceeds to express his explicit feelings on any number of subjects, especially those involving grade-rank and the CMO's prerogative.

(_A sick CMO doesn't get prerogative, Doctor._ How does that woman look so sweet while sassin' him?)

She pulls out a hypospray and he wisely holds his tongue for the arrival of Jim and Spock. Instead, he demands their charts. It is standard McCoy procedure to have the two commanding officers examined after a mission gone awry—_whether they were on it or not_ (because shit just magically happens to them).

M'Benga has taken care of the minor abrasions, but McCoy does not like the notes on Jim's mild concussion, apparently a result of tagging along after Leonard and a demented sea monster under the dock. Spock's chart includes enhanced meds to combat a compromised immune system. McCoy bets that Spock accepted them as disdainfully as he could (_the Vulcan constitution is more hale than that of other species_), a song and dance McCoy encounters frequently.

When he is satisfied that they were well-cared-for in his absence (his semi-coma), he leans tiredly back on his pillow and waits. _They_ don't need to know that he is satisfied, so he begins composing a little speech about "thou shalt not foolishly jump into sea…"

* * *

After a week-long recuperation (and examination), McCoy admits to himself that he needs to go back down to the planet. The Enterprise has not left orbit due to miles of red-tape, reports, and the comings and goings of an exuberant Science Department.

It isn't every day that the CMO of the Enterprise undergoes a physiological transformation with non-Human characteristics. Fortunately for McCoy, the Science Department is completely under Mr. Spock's thumb, and they would rather piece together a report with meager tricorder readings and second-hand results than disturb Doctor McCoy. (To do so would mean facing a traditional Vulcan challenge—deadly those things—over transgression against Mr. Spock's bondmate).

He wonders aloud why—if his body was storing (and reacting to) the unknown chemical—he didn't die upon transport to the Enterprise. Not one person can answer that question, but it makes Jim pale with realization. McCoy spends the remainder of beta shift assuring the Captain that, indeed, it wasn't much of a risk, they had been working blind—_for God's sake, stop wallowing, Jim!_

There are long hours of research and tests. The research he sneaks in because he has been ordered to rest; the tests are no fun since he is the test subject. However, when all is said-and-done, the conclusion is this: Leonard's reversion is an honest-to-God miracle. He gets a series of transfusions, and hemodialysis cleans up his blood. The bond, which must have been sabotaged, is quite active again.

Leonard is too much of a scientist at heart to accept the word miracle. He thinks that Ceri'a had linked him to her (through infection?) and that link was broken. Why she did it, though, is another matter; being a companion—_or a mate_—to Ceri'a does not bear thinking about.

He finally convinces the Captain to let him go planet-side. ("Fine, a full security team, Jim! Just keep 'em outta my hair.") They beam directly into the Square. Security fans out in a wave of red. When the people of Shii'ret recognize the outfits, they clear the streets. Bones can handle that; he's had his fill of the Shii'reti.

Jim is on his left, tense; Spock, his right—seemingly more interested in his tricorder, though Leonard knows better. McCoy does not turn towards the makeshift laboratory, nor head to the tavern. He simply looks ahead and asks quietly, "Where is the body?"

He has not queried this before, not even after the briefing for M'Benga's reports or in his own personal log. Now, back on the home-ground, he knows that without the answer, there will be no closure. (It's not real.)

Captain Kirk steps up, weighs him down with the most serious expression Bones has ever seen on his face. Jim answers, "We don't know, Bones. We left her on the dock after—reviving—you and beaming onboard the Enterprise. When the security team came down, her body was gone."

"Was she dead, Jim?"

"Doctor McCoy." It is Spock who addresses the issue. "I confirmed her condition."

He doesn't say, _Really, Spock? Before or after you decided to brain her against the post?_

He is weary. He is not upset, truly not. But he feels the strange sensation (like heart-sickness) of a pup taken too young from its mother. Which is a foolish (unnerving) thought.

He wants to be assured that her hold over him is truly gone. He closes his eyes, lets the wind play with his hair. The sea is a little more than a mile away. It still tugs at him, so he answers the call the only way he knows how—by taking Jim's arm and holding onto Spock's shoulder.

"I am going to the ocean," he says. "Will you come with me?"

**Note**: One final piece left. Thanks to those of you faithfully following along.


	15. Go in peace

Jim orders the Security team trailing behind the trio to wait at the edge, where grass meets beach. Jim, Spock, and McCoy trudge onwards, heading straight for the water lapping lazily at the shore. No one complains about the wet sand or cold wind. No one comments on the weird little crab-like thing that scuttles into a nearby sand-hole, or just how damned pretty the golden sunlight looks sprayed over the green cresting waves.

No one dares to say a word.

They approach like grave-robbers, all quiet steps and hushed breaths.

Leonard stops, circling a spot, and sits down. (He shivers, remembering the last time he did this.)

Jim joins him, closer than necessary but still straight-backed and alert. Spock remains standing.

Five idle minutes creep by as Leonard takes measured breaths of sweet sea air.

He came here with hope and dread. Hope for his future beyond this planet; dread, for the unnamed thing lurking at the back of his mind that whispers _McCoy._

If he does not return to the sea, will he lose this need?

Leonard feels Spock at this shoulder, sturdy, and sends a little _zing_ through the bond. Spock zings back.

If he does not return to the sea, will he be happy?

Bones catches Jim looking at him, and Jim smiles.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

"Well, Jim-boy, I don't rightly know if I should share."

Jim looks up. "Spock, if you would?"

Spock studies them both (almost gravely) before opening the connection between their three minds.

Leonard is inundated with love, concern, patience, and a tiny bit of nervousness. In return, he allows them to feel his worry, lingering fear, and longing.

They take all that he gives—sooth the worry, cleanse the fear, and puzzle over the longing before replying with longing of their own—for him to remain, a part of the whole.

Leonard cannot deny them; never could. He simply lays open his heart and says _yes_.

* * *

The ghosting of breath (cold wind) on his neck dispels the last of the (long) vision. The beach is empty: no Jim, no Spock. No man but McCoy himself and the spirit at his back.

_Is this what you desire?_ She's half part of him.

_I want the dream_, he thinks sadly.

_Yes, it was a good dream._

He turns, cannot make out much of her but the halo of green hair and long clear nails.

_Why show me this, Ceri'a? Why not just devour what's left of me and be done?_

_A debt, McCoy._ Whispering. She wavers. _I am free._

_You are dead_, he clarifies.

_Yes_, she agrees. _Free to return Home._

_And I'm dead too. _

He tastes the mist on his lips.

She must be smiling because a hole gapes where her mouth should be. _No, McCoy, you will live._

The sun spreads, then—goes white and he falls into the brightness. There is the echo of "No, don't you dare! Don't leave us, Bones, you promised!" and "Breathe, _fuck—_BREATHE!"

His throat and chest burns, his face raw—hurting—and slack. The boards of the dock dig into his skin. He can't open his eyes.

But he hears the shouts (and sobs?) Jim makes, feels the hard hands pushing on his ribcage. And he wants to say, _Ah Hell, Jimmy, don't cry._ He blacks out instead.

* * *

_One week and four days later…_

They retreat from the beach at dusk. McCoy stoops to pick up a shell and places it in his pocket. Jim and Spock are ahead of him now, by several steps. His eyes pause on a spot down the beach (where—_in a_ _lost place_—a man stands with the ghost of a Shii'reti), and he moves on.

In the distance, a fin breaks the even surface of the water (coasts in a little line) and the sun glints off vivid silver-lined scales. At least, it might be that this happens. But Leonard's mind has already returned to the path leading to the city and the call of "Bones! Come on!"

_-Fini_

* * *

**Note**: I put myself out of my misery. It's done. :) I almost took the evil Bones-can-never-suffer-enough route. (But Jim and Spock pulled out the phasers, and I re-considered.)

Anyway, there is a nice side note that accompanies the end of this fic (link on my profile page); if you were/are confused, this is the place to hash it out. I accept full responsibility for my awkward little brain.

Thanks for all the comments. Your feedback has been beneficial; it might have prevented a serious character massacre. If you enjoyed this fic, don't forget to feed the poor author with a review.


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